


The Puzzle

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, romance novels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull sees things in a different light. Some sort of romance, in fragments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Puzzle

**Author's Note:**

> Firescribble may live to regret the day she started telling me about analysing romance novels.
> 
> If you're looking for sex, I have to apologise; although people think about sex almost constantly in this fic, no on-screen sex happens. This is 100% gratuitous depiction of People Having Feelings.
> 
>  
> 
>  _I walked into love_  
>  _I walked into a minefield I never heard of_  
>  / Ane Brun, The Puzzle

It's late summer, the grass turning dull, the mountains almost bare. The Iron Bull works out a new contract for the Chargers with Josephine, and fixes the hole in the roof, and doesn't comment when he goes through his wardrobe and realises exactly how much of Dorian's shit is in there, all neatly sorted and folded.

They're not at war, but they're not done either.

Life goes on, with adjustments.

 

 

There are things that take him by surprise: the sense-memory of Dorian beneath him, the arch of his back pressing him up against the Bull's stomach, that little soft patch of skin at the base of his spine and the way his expression flickered with helpless pleasure when the Bull stroked it. It was three nights ago, before they left Skyhold, and it's been catching him at unpredictable moments ever since. Dorian talks seriously with Cole about weird demon crap by the camp-fire, frowning slightly as he thinks things through, and suddenly the memory is just _there_ \- so sharp that the Bull feels it with his whole body, wants to jerk back from it. Like reaching for a knife and remembering a cut, like his body's trying to tell him it's dangerous. Terrifying.

The Bull has never been scared of pleasure. He's not ashamed, not like Dorian in those early days, wanting and wanting and wanting, torn between defiance and humiliation, all the Tevinter bullshit that just wouldn't let go. He likes sex a whole lot. Likes how it's done down here in the South, even if it can get a bit too chaotic sometimes - that's the price you've got to pay for the ability to improvise. He's careful, and if you're careful then it's a great way for friends and acquaintances to work off some stress and, so to speak, come together. It's nothing dangerous at all. Except—except he wasn't really thinking about fucking, was he. Not that kind of pleasure, not as such. Oh, sure, technically, but—

Firelight flickers over Dorian's face as he tilts his head closer to Cole, softens him for a moment, makes him look younger, rather sweet. Dorian, not the Mage from Tevinter he uses as a mask even now.

The Bull hauls himself to his feet, too fast, leg protesting at the strain, and ignores the weight of Dorian's gaze on his back as he retires to his tent. There are rules, there have to be rules. Now more than ever. Corypheus was good for something, provided definition when he tore himself away from the Qun, but now that part's done—damn good riddance. So fucking and fighting have to be easy. Nothing else is.

 

 

Dorian, standing imperiously naked by the Bull's bed for the first time, cheeks flushed, chin raised. So perfectly haughty, that careful little smirk on his lips. The Bull is pretty sure he's part of some kind of elaborate fantasy about conquering savages right now, some little story that would take the blame off of Dorian for wanting this quite so damned much—but maybe, just maybe, Dorian looking like this is doing something for him too. He looks absolutely fucking untouchable.

The Bull curls a hand around Dorian's hip, doesn't grasp, just lets his palm rest there over the bone, and Dorian—Dorian trembles. It doesn't show on his face. A man who knows about hiding.

"Not so gentle, if you _please_ ," he says, and the Bull curls his fingers harder against skin, breathes in, steady, steady. Dorian isn't caged. Bull is sitting on the bed, Dorian standing over him. It's only one hand.

Dorian's lips are damp, slightly parted. Very red. Fumbling kisses in a quiet corner of the tavern half an hour ago, more against the door of the Bull's room, deep and messy. The Bull can still taste Dorian on his tongue. But now—

"There are rules," the Bull says, serious through the faint buzz of alcohol. 

Dorian's breath catches, and for half a heartbeat his expression wavers, eyes widening. "Ah."

He's afraid, the Bull thinks. Damn. Better call it off. It's a shame, Dorian's every bit as sexy as he likes to claim, he's probably great in bed. They could have fun. But fear's a no.

Dorian's expression steadies, though. "No, I don't mean—I'm only startled. You must understand—speaking of these kinds of things directly, in Tevinter, one doesn't—"

Fuck Tevinter, the Bull thinks as Dorian trails off. Fuck all of their bullshit, every last bit of it. But Dorian's being honest. That's new.

He waits.

"Tell me," Dorian says, and the Bull, rubbing circles on Dorian's skin with the pad of his thumb, obliges.

 

 

There are things that change and then there are moments when you know it. The Bull knows he's Tal-Vashoth on top of a miserable cliff on a miserable stretch of Ferelden coast; a moment with weight to it, brutal and wrenching. Thinking about it later, though, maybe that wasn't really the moment when it happened. He'd already been losing his footing, probably.

I'm just used to them being over there, he'd told Adaar, and didn't see the full extent of it.

The moment isn't the change, it's just the point when you can't ignore it any more. But he keeps looking for moments anyway. Krem kicking wildly on a tavern floor. Adaar staring him down, all defiant challenge, strange pride: we Vashoth aren't what you think, and you'd better damn well not forget it. 

But those things are all external. Shallow, even at the same time as they're vital. How does a person change? Do they change?

The need to ask his Tama is an unexpected ache. Like a kid alone in the dark. Fucking stupid. He could just go back out and sit by the fire again, back to the voices rising and falling in an indistinct murmur outside the tent. Stop running in circles in his own head. But maybe he wants to be melancholy, just for a while—can't do that out there, not with Cole sitting right across from him, not with half a dozen scouts around who only think of him as some kind of big noisy oaf. He's got an image to maintain just as much as anyone else.

Behind the sound of voices, the wind in the trees of the Emerald Graves sounds like the sea, like standing on the coast outside Qunandar on a calm day. The Bull closes his eye. White sand under his feet and Tama's huge hand on his shoulder, the shriek of the other children at play fading into the distance. The sea became sky seamlessly, blue for ever and ever. Learned words in his head with the weight of ritual. _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun._ The tide rises, the tide falls, the sea is changeless. But he has exchanged that sea for another.

Dorian's secretive little smile against the Bull's lips, unseen but felt, incomprehensible. Why should he think of that? That came later. You can't just assume you know everything about everyone, Bull, he said.

 

 

Another first: Dorian, sitting naked on the bed, the Bull's covers draped across his shoulders against the cool edge to the mountain air. A lazy morning while Adaar and the advisors plot their next move. 

Dorian is gorgeously disarranged, hair a complete mess—the Bull did a damned good job, if he says so himself. There are marks on Dorian's wrists that'll be hidden later under cuffs; Dorian will touch them through the day, shoot furtive little glances in the Bull's direction, and that'll be fucking hot—knowing Dorian gets off on feeling the echoes of being bound, knowing the Bull could give him that, hell yeah, that's good. But it's his face that the Bull is studying most carefully right now, all shifting disbelief, horrified amusement. He looks as though he doesn't know whether to laugh or not, but he's also very slightly flushed. It's fascinating.

Romance clearly isn't Dorian's genre—or at least he doesn't want it to be. He wants to like something pornographic, probably. Filthy poetry. Properly cultured debauchery for the decadent Altus. Personally, the Bull is way past guilty pleasures. He's read half of Cassandra's collection, got a few of his own. It's hit and miss, but the good ones have all these great little details—

"Does Cassandra know you've got her book?" the Bull says, grinning up at Dorian. 

"Oh, yes," Dorian says. His lips quirk up at one corner. "She seemed to think I might actually enjoy it."

"And obviously you don't." The Bull stretches, groans in satisfaction as his spine clicks.

"I feel you're laughing at me," Dorian says, all puffed up in mock-offence. "No, I do not care for this drivel. It's horrible. As horrible as—Ferelden beer." He's smiling with his whole face, with his eyes. Dorian Pavus laughs at himself before anyone else can, but it's usually sardonic.

"As horrible as me," the Bull says. 

"Oh," Dorian says softly, fondly, "I don't know about that. Nothing is quite as horrible as you."

The Bull rolls his good eye and drags Dorian close for a kiss, both of them laughing into it, and the book tumbles to the floor, Dorian's place entirely lost. He doesn't even offer a token protest, just rearranges himself in the Bull's lap, kisses the Bull again, mouth, cheek, jaw, lips dragging over stubble. The closeness tingles pleasantly through the Bull's entire body. 

" _Bull,_ " Dorian says, breathless, affectionate, demanding. Tugging the Bull's hands to where he wants them, rolling his hips pointedly. Fuck me, fuck me, come on. 

Of course the Bull fucks him. Of course it's great. But this is what he's going to remember with most clarity: Dorian's unguarded expression as he read trashy romance in bed, one slow spring morning in the middle of a war.

 

 

Rifts closed and back to Skyhold. Cassandra is gone, other duties more pressing now that the world isn't actively coming apart at the seams; the courtyard is still full of life, but the Bull feels the space she's left behind, a disturbance in the rhythm of the place. It's hard to shake the desire for stability, a place for everything, everyone in their place. This is how it is, though: departures, changes.

Tevinter, for example, is a long way away.

In the tavern, Dorian leans against the first floor railing, watching Sera do tricks for Maryden below. Some sort of game to try and make her lose her place in the song. So far, Maryden is winning, but the Bull wouldn't put money on her in the long run. Man, times change.

The Bull settles next to Dorian, the railing creaking gently as it takes his weight. 

"You know," Dorian says, "I've never understood what it is you want."

He's watching the Bull with a focus that it would have been hard to believe him capable of a year ago. Not that Dorian's bad at people by any means, but he never used to give any particular indication of interest. A genuine desire to know, openly expressed. Too many damn games by half.

"To make you feel good," the Bull says, looks Dorian over, open appreciation of his body. Smirks. "It's what does it for me."

Dorian makes a little noise of frustration. "Not like that, you lech. I know _that._ "

"Still," the Bull says. "It's what you're getting."

"Everyone needs things," Dorian says quietly. A rare moment of solemnity. "Bull…"

The Bull's heart is beating too hard, anxious. His chest feels too full, no room for air. "Leave it."

Dorian's expression turns sharp. He must only study the Bull's face for a beat or two, but it feels like a small age. Finally he nods, glances away, back down to the more lively ground floor.

"I feel that we ought to rescue someone," he says. Sera is drawing a crowd. "I'm just not sure who."

"What, stop this show?" the Bull says. "No fucking way."

Dorian's laughter is a delight, tugging at the tight tangle around the Bull's heart. Something gives, something pulls.

"What a peculiar romance," Dorian says, still looking down, and when the Bull glances across at him, there's a tiny smile on his lips.

"Oh, I wouldn't call it _romance,_ " the Bull says, can't resist, filthily suggestive. 

"Romance, I imagine, is what you make of it," Dorian says, and straightens up. He's being kind of enigmatic again. "I must run. Don't get too drunk without me."

 

 

A summer day, flowers in the garden, and Dorian basking, though it's still not that warm. "I'm ruined forever," he says, head tilted back, eyes closed. "I just found myself thinking that this was marvelous weather."

Dorian can make anything into a complaint. It shouldn't be charming.

"Your move," the Bull prompts. Dorian is going to lose this game so damn hard.

"Hmm," Dorian says, and doesn't open his eyes. "I'm thinking."

"Uh-huh."

"Chess," Dorian says, "is a very serious occupation, as you well know. One must take one's time. Consider all the possibilities. Cheat one's opponent blind when they aren't looking if necessary."

"Yeah, well, you're giving me plenty of opportunity," the Bull says.

"A sporting advantage to even the field," Dorian says, and finally extracts himself from his sun-induced daze. "Oh, very well, I have no idea how to beat you, you insufferable savage."

"Did that hurt your pride?" the Bull says.

"Terribly." Dorian laughs. "I may never recover."

It's such a still moment, waiting for the end.

Dorian breaks it first, with a sigh. "Let's go and find Krem and make him buy drinks."

"Man," the Bull says, "that's brutal. I like it."

"Of course you do," Dorian says. "I always have the best ideas."

A waiting day, all preparations made, the future unnamed. The kind of day the Bull would usually prefer to spend hitting things. But this is OK too.

From that point on it's all chaos and damned floating rocks and would-be gods for what feels like the rest of the year. It's actually hardly any time at all. Funny how fast things can end, after so much build-up. 

The Bull thinks about sunshine in the garden over and over again and hits hard and runs through his entire collection of profanities in qunlat and common alike twice over.

At least there's a dragon. 

 

 

Change, then, in moments and slow processes. This is the logic of the romance novel, too: the big moment where the past is illuminated in a new light and understood differently. Not the change itself, but the revelation that things had stopped meeting your expectations a long time ago. Reinterpretation of a relationship based on new evidence about another person.

The Bull isn't so sure it works with other people, though. It's harder than that to change the way you really feel about someone; preconceptions resist. Maybe that's a romance thing, though. The Bull likes romance novels, sure, but he wouldn't want to fuck with that shit in reality. All that virtue and misunderstanding and mess, and if that's what love and romance are then humans can keep them. But that's an old thought, worn thin, too transparently flawed. It's snaking away from him. Romance is what you make of it, Dorian said a while ago. Not only the things in books.

But: moments. The Bull knows about those, if they're about himself.

You wake up one morning and think about a day full of assassins and paranoia and dead goddamn children and you can't think of a single reason to keep going.

You stand on a cliff-top above a wild grey sea and choose between loyalties.

You hear your door opening and closing quietly in the middle of the night and you don't think, shit, where's my axe, not even for an instant. Instead, you think—

Dorian.

And you realise.

"I talked to Adaar," Dorian says carefully, very still just by the door.

"Right," the Bull says, pushes himself up on his elbows to look at Dorian in the dim light of the room. Of course. He kind of doesn't want to know, not right now, but Dorian is clearly waiting to be asked. "About?"

Dorian looks away, over at the Bull's desk, at his own hand, at the damned curtains. "I have decided," he begins, hesitates, because he's just fucking intent on _killing_ the Bull, of course he is. "I've decided to stay with the Inquisition."

And the Bull feels a weight lift from him, feels like he's suddenly so light he could float away, and he knows. He _knows._ This is the moment, not when he falls in love with Dorian Pavus, but when he can't damn well ignore it any more. Not starlight and delicate blushes after all.

There is no catastrophe this time. No loss. He doesn't need to do anything dramatic. He just knows, holds the truth of it carefully inside himself. This has been happening for months.

The Bull draws in a steady breath, half a yawn, and _feels_.

"Come on, then," he says, and lifts the covers to let Dorian slide into the bed beside him.

 

 

"Adaar asked if it was because of you," Dorian says, settling closer against the Bull's side, still restless and fidgety, impossible to fall asleep next to.

"Yeah?" the Bull says. Curls his arm around Dorian's shoulder.

"Mm. I said that it might be."

"Really," the Bull says, stares up in the general direction of the shadowed ceiling. Steady breaths.

"I may have," Dorian swallows, licks his lips. He sounds nervous, really nervous. "I may have—understated. Bull—"

I love you, the Bull thinks fiercely, I love you, I love you, I love you. But the words are too new, even though the feeling isn't. 

"I wouldn't ask you to stay," he says, holds Dorian a little tighter, reassurance, soothing away the little noise that escapes him, the fear. "I'm glad you didn't go."

" _Oh,_ " Dorian says softly. "Oh—"

No cutting little quips, not now, not in the dead of night. 

"Kiss me," the Bull blurts out, and feels the sudden terrifying thrill of wanting something for himself, its own kind of adrenaline kick, spiraling through him. Commanding is one thing, demands that make Dorian shiver with desire, on your knees, on your stomach, spread your legs, touch yourself, suck me off. That's still about Dorian. But this—this is— "I want you to kiss me." Please. A need.

And Dorian kisses him. Slow and tender. 

Not a moment's hesitation.


End file.
